


Castles in the Air

by Euterpein



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Biting, Crowley is a Tease (Good Omens), Dracula Influence/References, F/F, Historical Inaccuracy, Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), Pining, Vampire Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:35:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27305692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euterpein/pseuds/Euterpein
Summary: The release of a certain gothic romance novel draws Aziraphale to a castle in the remote Romanian wilderness--where the night takes an unexpected, if entirely pleasant, turn.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 57
Collections: Trickety-Boo! Exchange





	Castles in the Air

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MelayneSeahawk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelayneSeahawk/gifts).



> This fic was written as part of the Trickety-Boo Exchange!
> 
> CWs for biting kink and roleplay, no blood <3

_“I am longing to be with you, and by the sea, where we can talk together freely and build our castles in the air.”_

― Bram Stoker, _Dracula_

The carriage bounced back and forth on the uneven dirt road, the finest coach and horses money could buy apparently no match for the rough roadways of the Romanian mountains.

Aziraphale tried to swallow against the lump of nausea in her stomach that had started right about the time they had left Brașov and had only worsened with the altitude. 

One of her riding companions seemed to notice her distress. “Lady Fell,” she said, voice soft and curious, “have you taken ill?” 

“No, Giselle, I’m quite well.” Aziraphale tried to give her a reassuring smile, though she wasn’t sure how effective it was. She had never grown used to this kind of transportation; it had taken her long enough to adjust to riding on the backs of horses and camels. She wasn’t sure she’d ever grow comfortable with riding inside a box that was going far too fast. “How much longer until we reach the castle?”

“Only another hour or so,” said Peter from Giselle’s side. He looked excited; his eyes were wide and practically glittering with enthusiasm. Neither he nor his young wife seemed at all affected by the rocking of the carriage beneath them.

Aziraphale fought back the urge to gag, then turned her attention back to the small window looking out to the trees. 

True to Peter’s prediction, it was less than an hour before the thick forest they had been riding through gave way on each side to wide, unkempt grounds. The thick _crunch_ of gravel beneath the cabin’s wheels was better than any heavenly choir to Aziraphale’s ears.

She climbed out of the carriage with the help of a footman, who had appeared seemingly out of nowhere and bowed to her without ever meeting her eyes. She said a little prayer once she was back on blessedly firm ground. Then, she looked up.

There were no other words for it. The castle _loomed_. Dark spires stretched up into the mist, far above her head, the very tallest of the towers nearly shrouded in the clinging mist. It had obviously once been some medievil lord’s fortress. The look of it was military rather than palacial, rugged lines jutting up into the sky, though someone had obviously gone to the effort of restoring it more recently. Its dark stone and slate roofs might have disappeared into the mist entirely if not for the lights burning in nearly every room.

“A suite has been prepared for you on the upper floors,” the footman told them expressionlessly. “Your things will be brought up for you.”

Gratefully, they left their carriage and horses for the staff to care for while the footman showed them inside. They were led through lofty hallways and up grand staircases to a generous suite with two rooms flanking a central sitting room. The fireplace had already been lit for them, and they took a moment to recover from their long journey in the warmth of its glow. 

“I can’t believe we’re actually here,” Giselle said, happily nestled at her husband’s side on the sofa across from Aziraphale’s. “I mean, it’s _just_ like it is in the book, don’t you agree?”

“Mister Stoker’s descriptions do seem rather accurate,” Aziraphale admitted. “Though I must admit, I find this party business rather odd.” 

Peter smiled at her, genially. “Oh, come now, Lady Fell! You can’t tell us you’re not at least a little excited to be in _Dracula Castle_ itself! You’re a woman of letters, you must appreciate being in the site that inspired such a popular work.”

“I’m just a bit nervous about Mister Stoker’s other inspiration, I think,” Aziraphale said. “I mean, who is this Countess? Why is she throwing such a lavish party _now_? All the whispers about the book being a true account are ridiculous, of course, but I have to wonder...”

“You never know, Lady Fell,” Giselle teased, “perhaps they’re not only whispers after all. You should guard yourself, make sure you don’t end up as Countess Dracula’s afternoon meal!” She made a little growling noise and a snapping motion, imitating the snapping shut of a set of powerful jaws. Beside her, Peter guffawed.

Aziraphale rolled her eyes. “I hardly think that’s a concern for me, my dear. After all, I’d think a young thing like you might be in more danger than I should these _ridiculous_ rumors be truthful after all.”

“You sell yourself short, Miss Fell!” Peter declared, “I think any vampiress would be lucky to have you for a snack.” He and Giselle both giggled, excited and giddy, and Aziraphale did her best to chuckle along with them.

\----------------

After dark, the castle glittered like a jewel. There were dozens of humans there, hundreds, glittering right along with it in their finest dress. They mingled throughout the ground floor rooms, taking delicate morsels and champagne flutes from silver trays carried by the rather somber waitstaff. The air was full of excited talk and expensive perfumes. 

Aziraphale recognized a surprising number of her fellow attendees. She had established herself (at Heaven’t bequest) as a minor fixture of the English upper crust, a position which required rather more socializing with the European nobility than she was strictly comfortable with on the whole. Still, it did ease her nerves somewhat to see some familiar faces among the throngs. 

One such familiar face, a nobleman out of Sussex whose name was escaping her, hailed their party as they made their way idly through the crowd. “No sign of our mysterious benefactor yet,” he noted after an exchange of polite greetings, “and no-one here seems to know who she is either. I’m starting to think this is nothing more than a bit of a drum-up for Stoker’s novel.”

“ _Dracula_ hardly needs more acclaim than it’s already got,” Peter pointed out, “and it’s a long way to make people travel for nothing more than a bit of a party. Though I agree that the lack of host is a little bit unsettling...”

As if on cue, a sudden hush swept its way over the assembled throngs of people. It started near the grand stairway and radiated its way outwards, hushing conversations and cutting off laughter, until the whole castle lay silent.

Aziraphale turned around, trying to figure out the source of the hush, and nearly dropped her glass.

It was Crowley. Of _course_ it was Crowley. She was perched at the top of the grand stairwell like a raven in its roost, surveying all her kingdom below with a small smile playing about her lips. Her dress was in the most current court style--far ahead of Aziraphale’s own rather matronly selection--but black as night, as if she was in mourning. Her crimson curls tumbled down around her shoulders, accentuating her terribly pale skin. Black spectacles covered her eyes. 

“Thank you all for coming,” she said. She didn’t shout. She didn’t need to. The gathering of people was so silent the sound of a pin dropping would have been akin to a gunshot. “I know there have been a number of...rumors afloat since my dear friend Mr. Stoker’s novel came out. I applaud your bravery for attending my little gathering, and for traveling such a long way to do so. Please, enjoy.” She did not, Aziraphale noted, do anything to dispel such rumors. With that, her gaze swept over the crowd one last time. Her eyes met Aziraphale’s and lingered there, her smirk twitching wider for a moment, before she moved on.

Crowley seemed to avoid Aziraphale’s presence as she made her way through the crowd, to Giselle and Peter’s obvious distress. Aziraphale pretended as though she had little interest in the proceedings of Crowley’s path, and mostly failed. Crowley seemed to talk little and smile much, preferring to let her guests speak to her, deepening the sense of mystery that surrounded her like a shroud. Everyone vied for her attention. They hung on her every word as though precious jewels might spill from her mouth instead, trying to glean just how much connection to _Dracula_ she actually had.

Whenever someone asked her a question about it, she merely smiled.

Aziraphale watched from the sidelines as the party moved on about her. At one point music was struck up and most people drifted off to the ballroom, including Peter and Giselle, leaving only a few stragglers behind in the main sitting room. Aziraphale preferred to stay by the fire, considering her rather complicated relationship with dancing. 

“All alone tonight, are we?” a voice said from behind her. Aziraphale spun around to see Crowley, for once not surrounded by admirers. “Seems unfitting for such a beautiful lady.” 

Aziraphale raised her eyebrows. So they were playing that game, were they? “You flatter me, Countess.”

“Mmm.” Crowley moved closer, though she didn’t move to touch her. “I only give flattery where it’s due, my Lady. Are you enjoying the party?” 

“I am.” Aziraphale let herself indulge in a careful look at Crowley’s face. It had been decades since they’d seen each other, and though she knew Crowley’s face was equally as likely to change as her own, it was still good to see her. She looked pale, moreso than usual--likely as a part of her little ‘Countess Dracula’ charade. “The castle is absolutely lovely. Quite exquisite.” 

Crowley dipped her head in acknowledgement of the comment, never tearing her gaze from Aziraphale’s. “My thanks, Lady.” She seemed to hesitate for a moment. “Would you...like to see more of it? I’d be happy to give you a tour.”

Aziraphale looked around the room as if looking for Gabriel or some other angel to pop suddenly out of the woodwork. “I shall...have to tell my companions I’ve gone to bed. So they don’t worry.”

“Of course.” Crowley waved down a server and left him with instructions to deliver a message to Peter and Giselle. After, she offered her elbow to Aziraphale in a gentleman’s style.

Aziraphale could feel curious eyes on the back of her neck as she was swept out of the room. 

\-------------------

“ _Really_ , Crowley?” Aziraphale cast her eyes around the spacious bedchamber she found herself in. She had kept up the facade while Crowley had given her a whirlwind tour of the castle, including the library, but once she had been steered into Crowley’s own rooms she had felt at the end of her rope. True to Crowley’s style, it was sparsely but immaculately decorated. The harsh blankness of the stone walls was offset by the delicate drape of silk in a rich wine colour over the monstrous four-poster bed. Paintings and other fine objects tastefully adorned various surfaces and bits of wall, careful not to detract from the fine craftsmanship of the deep oak furniture. All of it was quickly bathed in the flickering orange light of a fire that Crowley summoned to the hearth with a lazy wave of her hand. Aziraphale took it all in for a moment, her train of thought nearly derailed at the room’s beckoning comforts, but remembered herself after only a moment. “Oh! I mean, _Countess Dracula_? _Really_ , dear?”

“To be fair, it was my name first.” Crowley settled on one of the sofas by the newly lit fire, seemingly boneless in the way she draped herself despite the frightening tightness of the corset at her waist. She poured wine into two glasses Aziraphale swore hadn’t been there a moment ago. “Old Bram got a bit overexcited after his last visit. Can’t blame me for the depravities of the human imagination.”

Aziraphale levelled her with her best withering glare, but settled down on the settee next to Crowley’s to accept a glass of wine anyway. “I rather think I can, _Serpent of Eden_.”

Crowley opened her mouth as though she was going to contest that one, but closed it again with a disarmingly sheepish smile. “That’s fair enough, I suppose. You can’t blame me for _his specific_ creative expressions, then.”

“Hmmph.” Aziraphale settled back, feeling her annoyance slip away with the comfortable familiarity of their banter and the taste of the rather delicious wine she was sipping. Still, she wasn’t quite ready to let it all go yet. “You can’t tell me you’re not encouraging the stories a bit, though, my dear. I mean, the spooky castle in the middle of the forest? Drawing attention to the fact that you never age? The _extremely thinly veiled_ references to your “skincare routine?” You’re hardly discouraging them.”

“They told me to cause some trouble,” Crowley said, shrugging. The motion jostled her curls where they lay over her shoulder, drawing Aziraphale’s eye to the lovely curve of her neck and down to her bosom before she guilty snapped her eyes back. “They were highly unspecific as to how. Besides, I’m not _actually_ luring poor young maidens off to suck their blood.”

She grinned at Aziraphale, a sudden, unrepentant thing, and Aziraphale blushed. “I should hope not,” she said, “I know there’s rumours of _bathing_ in the stuff but that seems just foul, even for a demon.”

Crowley acknowledged the truth in that with a small tilt of her glass. With only a little reluctance, Aziraphale met it with the rim of her own until it made a small _clink_ of a toast.

“It’s all a bit much, I’ll admit,” Crowley started after she’d taken a deep draught of her wine, “the blood and the swooning and all of that. But you have to admit there’s a sort of...romance about the whole human-vampire tale, even if it’s a bit of a macabre one.” 

“I absolutely do not,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley levelled her with a disbelieving stare, eyebrow raised. “Oh come on, angel, not even a _bit_?”

“One is a _monster_ , Crowley. A _predator._ ” 

“A wolf who falls in love with a lamb,” Crowley agreed. Her eyes were shining a little now, an unmistakeable teasing lilt curling the edge of her lips. She set her glass of wine down on a low table and stood, her gaze never leaving Aziraphale’s. “And that’s what I mean. Isn’t it just a little bit lovely,” she stepped forward, towards where Aziraphale was sitting, “to think of that? All that _power_ , all that... _hunger_...” She was close enough to touch now. Aziraphale thought for a wild moment that she might just lean down and kiss her, claim her lips as she’d claimed her heart long ago, but at the last moment, she turned to step around the back of the sofa. “...And rather than slaking its terrible thirst, it finds itself in love with the one thing it should never, _ever_ desire.” 

Aziraphale shivers as the barest of touches falls onto some of the curls at her shoulder. Those clever fingers gently brush the curls away. It bares her neck; the soft, pale skin there that was rising and falling with her quickening breaths. “I s-seem to remember some... _slaking_ going on in the novel,” Aziraphale managed, voice barely more than a whisper. It’s too warm in the room, the heat of the fire burning her up, she was sure of it. 

Crowley’s deep chuckle made a gush of warm breath ghost over the sensitive skin of her neck, and Aziraphale bit her lip against a whimper.

“Well, the lamb just looks so _tasty_ , angel.” A quick, warm sensation that might have been a flick of a serpentine tongue makes Aziraphale gasp. “And a wolf can only be so patient...”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale begs, all thoughts of resisting her own desires finally flying out the window, “ _please_.” 

Another warm puff of air ghosted over her neck as Crowley let out a deep, shaky breath. To Aziraphale’s immense distress, she pulled back, carefully tucking Aziraphale’s curls back to where they were. Aziraphale feared for a moment that she was going to stop the whole thing--walk out the door herself, or ask Aziraphale to leave--but her eyes when she steps back into Aziraphale’s field of vision were no less hungry. 

Carefully, gently, she picked up the half-forgotten wine glass Aziraphale was still clutching to her chest and set it aside. She extended one of her hands towards Aziraphale and asked, almost tentatively, “Come to bed with me, angel?”

And really, Aziraphale may have been an angel, but she was no _saint_. She took Crowley’s hand and allowed herself to be leveraged carefully to her feet, right into Crowley’s arms.

There was the space of a few short moments where they looked into one another’s eyes, seeking the desire and reassurance there, before they crashed together like stars. Aziraphale gasped as their lips made contact.

She would never admit it out loud (not for a few more centuries and a whole Apocalypse, at least), but _God_ , Aziraphale had missed this. Their dalliances were rare things. Both of them were too aware of the danger of it, the chances that their respective head offices might catch wind. And, beneath that, there was the fear that their... _affection_ for one another might have some sort of reflection on who they were, on the nature of their souls.

After all, what kind of angel craves _this_?

It’s a well-worn question that she shoved to the back of her mind as Crowley walked them backwards towards the enormous bed, never letting their lips part for more than a moment. She kissed her thoroughly, _hungrily_ , nipping at her skin and licking over her palatte as though she might devour her if given half the chance.

Aziraphale shivered all over again.

Crowley maneouvered them carefully until Aziraphale’s knees hit the back of the bed, encouraging her to sit on the edge of the expanse of black silk. Only then did she finally pull back. She’s absolutely gorgeous like this, Aziraphale thinks; always has been. Her pale skin has a delicate flush creeping up to her cheeks, her lips red and bruised-looking where Aziraphale had given as good as she’d been getting. Her yellow eyes were fiery, almost wild, and seemed to glow with their own internal light.

“Let me help you out of this...” she muttered, running a delicate finger along the curve of Aziraphale’s generous bosom to where the lacing kept the dress tight above the corset. After a nod from Aziraphale she tugged gently at the knot until it came undone, letting the cord slip and slacken through its grommets. 

“I can--” Aziraphale started, but Crowley shushed her. She fell to her knees between Aziraphale’s parted legs, a motion that make the frantic beating of Aziraphale’s heart kick up even further. 

Crowley ran a hand down the pale, smooth fabric of Aziraphale’s dress, from the bottom of her thigh and over her knee all the way down to her ankle. She paid as much care to the straps of Aziraphale’s shoes as she had to her dress, patiently undoing the fiddly buckles there until they came loose.

The room was quiet apart from the soft crackling of the fire and the gentle, even sound of their breathing, punctuated only by the _clunk_ of each slipper as Crowley dropped them to the floor. They were followed by the ghost of a touch from Crowley slipping the hem of her dress and petticoats up, _up_ , skimming over her legs and above her knees. Crowley kept eye contact with her the whole time she used the new access to roll down Aziraphale’s silk stockings, even as she leaned down to brush burning kisses to the newly-revealed skin.

Aziraphale watched helplessly, held in place by Crowley’s gaze. Every tiny shift made her breath tick up. Every brush of skin burned her, swooping down to her stomach in the best and worst of ways, making her ache. 

Her task complete, Crowley laid one more kiss to the bend of her knee and stood once again, rising sinuously to her feet. Aziraphale rose with her after a moment. Crowley dove straight in this time, kissing her again as she eased the bulk of Aziraphale’s fine dress over her shoulders, letting it hit the ground much as the shoes had. “Corset,” she murmured against Aziraphale’s mouth, her clever fingers digging into the complicated ties of the garment at Aziraphale’s back. 

“What about you?” Aziraphale asked, breathless, as she was spun around to give Crowley access to the corset’s bindings. It was white, like the petticoats and the shift beneath it. Crowley made a wounded sound and dove after her, her patience seeming to reach its limits, tugging at the cord there with as much swiftness as she could manage without tangling them together.

“We’ll deal with me later,” Crowley answered, distracted, utterly focused on her task. She was practically tearing at the garment now. Aziraphale almost feared she was going to rip it right off her, and found that the idea didn’t distress her nearly as much as it probably ought to do.

Finally, the corset came loose. Crowley stripped it and the petticoats off of her immediately, leaving Aziraphale in just the loose, frilly shift. Crowley paused.

“Are you--do you still...?” she said, suddenly hesistant.

Aziraphale reached down and lifted the blasted thing over her head herself. She knew her curls must be an absolute mess by now, considering they were all over the place at the best of times, but she had found that deep place within herself where she simply _did not care_ anymore. “Crowley,” she begged again, the words heavy, and it was enough.

Crowley was on her again immediately. She nearly crowed in victory at the acres of pale skin now bared to her wandering hands, flushed and gorgeous in the warmth of the firelight. Aziraphale’s knees hit the back of the bed yet again but this time they both fell, Crowley landing bodily on top of her, encasing her in black fabric above and below from the spill of the skirts she was still wearing. 

Crowley was like a storm that couldn’t be stopped. She nipped at Aziraphale’s lips, gripped over her skin. Her hands were on Aziraphale’s breasts, her thighs, ghosting over the curls between her legs for only a moment before slipping away again. Aziraphale tried to give as good as she got, kissing back with passion, but whined in complaint when Crowley’s dress prevented her from getting beneath. “Crowley--I want--”

“What do you want, angel?” Crowley said from where she had been laving kisses below Aziraphale’s jaw. 

“Want to _touch_ you,” Aziraphale managed, tugging at the fabric of Crowley’s dress for emphasis. 

Crowley pulled back. She was still perched over Aziraphale, her whole body framing Aziraphale’s beneath her, so there wasn’t terribly far back to go. Still, she peered into Aziraphale’s eyes for a moment. 

Contemplating. 

“Do you want that, angel?” Her voice had an odd timbre to it, almost teasing. “Is that what you want?”

Aziraphale frowned, both at the question and at the sudden lack of sensation. She was suddenly very acutely aware that she was naked and pinned beneath the demon, those yellow eyes holding her down as effectively as the press of her body, that teasing glint promising wonderful and dangerous things. “O-of course,” she said, but without conviction, “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Why?” Crowley made a little serpentine movement above her, ostensibly a readjustment, though the shifting pressure in all the right places made Aziraphale whine. “I have a little theory, angel. Would you like to hear it?”

“A theory?” Aziraphale asked. She _did_ want to hear it, desperately so, but she couldn’t bring herself to admit it out loud.

Crowley grinned. “That’s right. See, I think _someone_ hath protested a bit too much earlier. About their enjoyment of certain... _racy_ novels that I may or may not have had a hand in?”

Aziraphale’s flush deepened. “I’m sure I don’t--that’s simply ridiculous! I don’t--I haven’t--”

“No? So that little friend of yours was a liar then, was she?”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “You spoke to Giselle?”

“Oh, yes.” Crowley started up a gentle motion of her hands again, shifting her weight back a little, just running the tips of her fingers along Aziraphale’s skin as-if idly. “Just before I came to find you. She was quite chatty, you know. Quite eager to tell me about how much you’d enjoyed Bram’s little novel. Imagine, the angel Aziraphale reading a first edition so often she accidentally cracks the spine. For shame.” She tutted, softly, though her eyes were all mischief.

Aziraphale was pretty sure her face was all flush at this point. “I bought another one,” she blurted, apparently unable to think of anything else to say in her defense.

“Of course you did,” Crowley said, a measure of fondness mixing in with the teasing lilt of her voice. She leaned down over Aziraphale again, so close she could whisper right in her ear. “Is that what you want, then, angel? A scary monster to come and _ravish_ you?” She punctuated this with a scrape of suddenly-sharp teeth against the vulnerable column of her neck, and Aziraphale felt the spike of arousal in her gut like a stab.

“Oh, _Crowley,_ ” she breathed, wriggling a little beneath her just to feel the points of those fangs dig in a little deeper. “Crowley, I--” 

“Just say ‘yes,’ angel.” Crowley’s eyes flicked up to meet hers again, her mouth still tantalizingly close to Aziraphale’s skin. “That’s all I need. Just one little ‘yes.’” 

Aziraphale swallowed against a whole host of anxieties that swam before her mind, reasons why all this was an absolutely _terrible_ idea. 

“ _Yes_ ,” she said, and she meant it. 

Crowley grinned, her newly-grown fangs glinting in the firelight. She surprised Aziraphale again by bringing her hands up and disentangling Aziraphale’s fingers from where they had been clutching at the slippery silk of the bedspread, lacing them through her own instead. She leaned her weight onto them, pressing Aziraphale’s hands into the bed and increasing the pressure of Crowley’s skinny hips over the lower half of her own body, and _struck_.

Aziraphale cried out as the sharp fangs sank deep into her neck. It _hurt_ \--of course it did--but there was also pleasure there, a dizzying sort of bliss riding the coattails of the pain that left her gasping and the world spinning around her. Crowley rocked down onto her a moment later, rubbing their bodies together, morphing her sharp cry into a deep moan. 

Her body didn’t know what it was meant to be feeling. Her skin felt too tight, too hot, the dual sensations at her neck and between her legs leaving her unsure where to focus, how to react. Her legs tried to close on sheer instinct but Crowley’s body prevented them from doing so. The pressure of her sensitive thighs around Crowley’s hips only increased the feelings there and she whined, lost in sensation.

Crowley was relentless. She kept her fangs buried in Aziraphale’s neck for several long minutes as she rocked her hips over Aziraphale’s clit, sucking at the skin until Aziraphale knew there would be bruises there tomorrow if she allowed it. When she was apparently satisfied, she pulled off and moved to the other side, burying her fangs right where her neck met her shoulder.

Aziraphale’s orgasm hit her like a freight train. The sensation of Crowley’s fangs sinking into her skin combined with the relentless motion of her hips was too much--it was too _much_ \--and she nearly screamed, writhing mindlessly under Crowley’s iron grip. 

Crowley rode her through it, sucking even harder at her neck and changing the motion of her hips to a deep grind that that reduced Aziraphale to a blabbering, whimpering mess. Finally the roiling, spiking sensations in her gut faded, and her whimpers of pleasure turned sharply into whimpers of overstimulation.

Gently, Crowley detached herself from Aziraphale’s neck and pulled back. She disentangled their fingers from each other and rolled carefully onto her side. Aziraphale took a few seconds to bring her breathing back under control and to bask in the afterglow, still feeling somewhat hazy in the best way.

“You alright, angel?” Crowley asked, once again running the tips of her fingers over Aziraphale’s generous curves. “I didn’t hurt you?”

Aziraphale contemplated that question for a few moments, letting it percolate through the treacle of her thoughts. There was a dull sort of ache coming from her neck, radiating out from the points that Crowley had bitten her and permeating outward into the surrounding flesh, but it was a pleasant sort of ache. It was the sort of ache that one got after indulging in a luxurious meal. A little uncomfortable, but carrying the flavor of sweet sin in its wake. 

“You have,” Aziraphale said, deciding, “but it’s not unpleasant. I think I might...rather like it, actually.”

Crowley’s roving finger paused, then continued as if nothing had changed. “Do you now? Never would have guessed it, angel.”

“Really? You were quite spot-on with the bit about the novel.”

“Mmm,” Crowley acknowledged, swirling seemingly random symbols into the flesh of her stomach, “but fantasies don’t always translate to desires. I’d have stopped if you didn’t seem like you enjoyed it.”

Aziraphale’s heart clenched a little in her chest, but she did her best to ignore it; she knew what it meant, and how dangerous it was. “I...I know you would have, my dear. I never feared for a moment.”

Crowley sighed, her breath tickling against the fine hairs over Aziraphale’s chest. “What will you do now, then? I’ve got books in here, though I’m not sure if you’ll like them or not. And we’ve still got wine...” There was a question in her voice, as though she wasn’t sure if Aziraphale would stay or not. 

“That does sound lovely, my dear,” she admitted, “but I had rather thought...well.”

Crowley picked up her head to peer curiously at Aziraphale’s face. “Thought what, angel?”

The flush that had only barely begun to draw back from Aziraphale’s face heated her cheeks once again. “I had thought that I might...get you out of that dress, actually. I’ve rather neglected your pleasures thus far. And, I mean, the night is still young.”

Crowley’s smile was almost distressingly bright where it lit up her face. “That it is, angel,” she said, leaning over to give her a kiss just as deep and searing as the first, all the way back in Mesopotamia. “That it is.”


End file.
